


A Small Collaborative Effort

by damalur



Series: Conceits [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Id Fic, Kid Fic, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-01 13:33:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2774849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damalur/pseuds/damalur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When two business partners love each other very much, they invest in a joint venture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am fairly certain this is extremely self-indulgent and therefore unfit for human consumption, but I leave it here so that you may judge for yourself.

Kirkwall had been under siege for thirty-seven weeks, and Isabela was starting to get tetchy. Not as tetchy as Fenris, of course—he hated feeling cornered—and certainly not as tetchy as Aveline, who had great dark bruises under her eyes from the strain of coordinating their forces; actually, when measured against her peers, Isabela was the picture of level-headed serenity. Still, she felt the itch in that particular spot between her shoulderblades. 

It wasn't as though Kirkwall had any hold over _her_ , but she did—well, she sort of owed the city something, and with Hawke dead and gone, and Varric vanished after her, someone had to hold down the fort. Personally, she thought Sebastian should have given up this mad war years ago; he had retreated shortly after all that business with the Inquisition and Corypheus, but not long ago rumors of Anders had surfaced again, and now he had surrounded the city and showed no sign of leaving.

In Darktown the poor were eating rats, although honestly, eating rats wasn't terribly unusual behavior in Kirkwall. Isabela had eaten rat before and hadn't cared for it, but she'd eaten worse, too.

She was ferrying bandages and poultice ingredients late one night when she heard the scuffling. Shouting froze her in her steps immediately while she assessed the threat; scuffles between Kirkwall's inhabitants weren't uncommon, but more than one band of mercenaries had managed to infiltrate this deep into the city, too.

Still, it was a surprise when the shouting stopped and a small figure came racing out of the darkness and flung itself bodily at her knees. She didn't even have time to react, full of the crate as her hands were, and for a few fraught moments she did nothing but blink down at the small child attached to her legs.

"Hello there, kitten," she said, and dropped the crate to the side. "What's this all about?"

The child stared up at her. Blue eyes, ragged halo of strawberry hair, about knee-high—barely more than an infant, really, not that Isabela was terribly experienced with children; in fact, child-rearing was one of the few areas in which she was lacking experience.

"Mother said to stay with you," said the child. Isabela revised her estimate of the child's age upwards; she was a tiny sprog of a thing, but her voice was high and clear.

"Now, that can't be right." She bent over the detach the sprog and instead found that the thing had clamped its arms around her neck. Hmm.

"Mother _said_ ," the sprog insisted.

"All right, sweets," said Isabela. "Who's this mother of yours?"

"Mother?"

"Right, yes, her. What's her name?"

"Mother's Mother," said the sprog.

Isabela looked down at the crate. No, it was no good; she might have been a delicious drink of lean muscle, but there was no way she could make it back to the Hanged Man carrying both child and box. The box would have to stay here, then; hopefully it wouldn't be pilfered before she could send someone back for it.

She didn't call out for the girl's mother, but she did do some surreptitious scouting. No luck. The streets were empty, but there was always a chance of better fortune in the morning.

"And what's your name, kitten?" she asked.

The girl stared, those big eyes of hers ringing something deep in Isabela's memory; her face was lean-jawed even with the baby fat, but she was clearly well-fed, and her clothes were plain but in good repair.

"Mal," she said.

"Mal," said Isabela. Well, it didn't sound like any name she had ever heard before, but there was no accounting for taste. "Mal, if it's acceptable to you, I thought I might bring you back home with me for the night, and then in the morning, when it's light outside, we could look for your mother together."

"Mother said to stay with you," said Kitten, her little lower lip jutting out.

"Then so you shall," said Isabela. "And I'm sure your mother is just fine, hmm?"

"Papa says so," said Kitten, and then she put her face against Isabela's shoulder. Isabela didn't think the girl was asleep; she was stiff enough that Isabela felt like she was hauling around a particularly heavy pint-sized plank.

Ah, well. She sighed against the girl's hair and started the long walk back to the Hanged Man.

Aveline still worked out of the Viscount's Keep, but she'd set up guard stations throughout Kirkwall, and one of them happened to be beside Isabela's favorite pisshole. Her own crew had taken the Hanged Man for a base, although all of them save one were sacked out upstairs by the time she finally staggered inside.

The one was waiting up for her, of course, and his brows flew up when he saw what she was holding.

"And who," Fenris said, "is this?"

She collapsed onto the nearest bench, Kitten clinging to her still, and found she had plenty of energy to smirk at him. "I've adopted," she said.

 _"What?"_ said Fenris.

Isabela chuckled. "Oh, relax—I found her out by herself. More like she found me, actually. Kitten, would you like to meet someone?"

The head popped up. "No," said Kitten.

"That is a shame," said Isabela. "It's a particularly nice someone. Well, he's nice to _me_ , anyway. Most of the time." She winked at Fenris, and the corner of his mouth turned up.

Kitten swiveled around to examine Fenris. She didn't flinch back from him the way a lot of children did, points for her, but nor did she make any attempt to leave Isabela's lap.

"Mother said to stay with Isabela," Kitten informed Fenris.

"You're a regular parrot, aren't you?" said Isabela. "Why don't we find you some food and then a place to sleep. I don't suppose you have any other information to share about Mother?"

"She said to stay with you," said Kitten.

"Do you know where you live?" Isabela tried.

"Everywhere," said Kitten. "Where's food?"

"Corff is asleep, but I think I can manage some bread and cheese," said Fenris. He vanished into the Hanged Man's kitchen. Isabela hauled herself to her feet, bolted the entrance, and relocated both of them to a more comfortable table. After some coaxing and outright physical manipulation, she managed to get Kitten turned around in her lap, but she was pleased that when Fenris set down a platter of bread and cheese cut into squares, the girl demonstrated she was capable of feeding herself.

She packed away a whole loaf of bread and the better part of a wedge of cheese, and then she sighed, yawned, and fell asleep. Just that fast; Isabela envied her.

"Well," said Fenris.

"Well," said Isabela. "I suppose I'd better put her down somewhere." There was plenty of room in Varric's old suite; nobody had ever quite managed to set up permanent residence there, but somehow Isabela didn't think the ghost of her old friend would mind some poor, lost orphan occupying his bed for a night.

When she had finished tucking the blankets around Kitten's shoulders, she went back downstairs; Fenris was picking at what was left of the cheese, and Isabela sat beside him on the bench and put her head on his shoulder.

"Poor girl," she said. "I can't imagine her mother made it out alive, but the least we can do is have a look around."

"Elegant will take her," said Fenris.

"Elegant has her hands full up with bereaved children," said Isabela. "Ooh, I know—let's give her to Aveline, surely she won't notice one more?"

Fenris huffed and put an arm around her shoulders. They sat like that long into the night, in an empty room that had once rung with the laughter of everyone Isabela had known by heart.

-

Kitten was up bright and early the next morning; once again she attached herself to Isabela's side, and although she didn't demand Isabela carry her, she did keep a tight grasp on whatever part of the captain she could reach—boot, coat, feathered hat, or dagger hilt. Isabela fed her, washed her face, put up with the taunts of her crew, and finally strapped on her long knives, took Kitten's hand, and led the girl outside.

Fenris was at their heels, of course, a pair of falchions girded at his waist. He was shaping up into a rather dashing pirate, and when he stepped into the sunlight, Isabela took a moment to congratulate herself on her taste before the solemnity of the day pulled her back to the ground.

"We'll start where I found her, I think," she told Fenris, and hoisted Kitten into her arms. She really was a slip of a thing, if lacking in personality, although Isabela couldn't hold that against her—she supposed most children didn't much speak or do anything interesting at that age.

They spent the better part of the day combing Kirkwall's alleys for anything that might spur Kitten's memory, but the girl remained silent except for her insistence that she remain with Isabela. Isabela, meanwhile, wracked her memory for anyone she might know with a small child.

"Well?" said Fenris.

"Why would I know anyone with children?" Isabela said. "Other than Aveline, of course, but she isn't a friend. Sort of a casual acquaintance, really."

"You're fond of Aveline," said Fenris.

"'Fond' is such a strong word." Isabela shifted Kitten from one hip to another. "I know it's unusual to see me at a loss, but in this case, I have no idea what's going on. We seem to have—" And that fast, they were under attack, six, seven, nine mercenaries who closed out of nowhere.

"Shit," Isabela hissed, and let Kitten slide to the ground. Fenris took up guard in front of them both, sword slanting across his body; by themselves Isabela would have flung caution to the wind, nine on two wasn't such terrible odds considering the two, but when the two had a child in tow?

The street was narrow, tall buildings on both sides, no doors, no open windows; she drew one of the daggers from the harness on her back, grasped Kitten's hand, and began to back away, but there was a rear guard—of course there was.

"Behind us!" she called to Fenris, and he chanced a quick look over his shoulder. Isabela, meanwhile, had spun herself out in front of Kitten, leaving the girl trapped between the two of them.

"Listen, boys," she said to the three men in front of her, "there's no need to fight—"

The vanguard closed on her, and the fight broke open.

Much as she wanted to spare a thought for Fenris, she kept her eyes glued to her three and finished them off as quickly as possible; they were decently trained, hungry, if not as hungry as Isabela. Her long knives sang through the air, but one of mercenaries caught her with a glancing blow that was nonetheless brutal enough to slice through her heavy coat and bite into her side. She cursed and yanked Kitten behind her as she whirled about. Fenris had put down three himself; six were left.

Fenris fell back beside her. "There are too many—you need to get her out of here."

"Balls if I'm leaving without you," Isabela said. Her grip was slick with blood, but she kept her eyes trained before her. "You're too pretty for me to let you die in a back alley."

He growled at her, and Isabela would have laughed if not for the hammering in her chest. Kitten's hand had slipped from her grasp, which was fine. 

The mercenary in the lead glanced at the man beside him, and then they leapt forward together, ten feet away—five—Isabela rocked forward on her feet—

And then the alley erupted with light. When her vision cleared, Isabela was stunned; the mercenaries, all six of those remaining, were hanging suspended in a glowing blue field, their feet dangling half a foot from the ground.

Isabela gaped. Fenris made a noise of disbelief, and they twisted together to look at Kitten. Kitten was clearly not the culprit, whatever their first shocked thought had been, because she was looking even further back down the alley.

There was a woman standing there in a dark coat, the hood drawn over her face; one of her hands was outstretched, and the other held a staff tipped with a spike the width of a hand. She seemed to be straining with some invisible force, and then she pressed forward. A wave rippled out from her, and the mercenaries slammed into the ground, unconscious or dead.

"What the—" Isabela got out, and then Kitten screeched at the top of her lungs. The woman dropped her polearm and opened her arms just in time to catch Kitten as the girl flung herself forward.

Fenris swore in Tevene. 

"My thoughts precisely," Isabela said. "Hello? Sorry to interrupt"—the woman was clutching Kitten to her—"but we seem to have found your, mm. I suppose she's your daughter?"

The woman gathered Kitten up and stood. "Well, she isn't anyone else's daughter," said a remarkably familiar voice, and then she reached up to pull back her hood. "Although I must say, I'm impressed you kept her in one piece for an entire day."

Oh. Oh, this was too much. Isabela choked.

"Sorry about that, by the way," Hawke continued, glib as ever. "I had these bastards on my tail, managed to lose them in the sewers. Terrible place, all dank and full of garbage, but handy for a quick escape."

"Hawke," Fenris said.

"Yes, hello," said Hawke.

Isabela glanced at him and then knelt to wipe her dagger clean on the trousers of some poor sod who had cracked his head open from Hawke's spell. When she had resheathed it, she sauntered forward, taking the time to study the woman before her. No, even up close it was still Hawke; her hair fell raggedly to her chin instead of raggedly to her ears, but the blue eyes were the same—and _that_ was why Kitten had stirred her memory. Except for the girl's hair, she was Hawke in miniature.

"You're _alive,"_ Isabela said, and then she wrapped her arms around Hawke and Hawke's daughter both. After a moment Hawke's free arm slid around her back.

"Sorry," Hawke said. "Isabela, I'm so sorry, we couldn't let anyone know—they've been hunting us—"

"Shh," Isabela said. "Shh, it's fine, sweets, we're just happy you're here." Kitten squirmed between them, and Isabela let go. "Look at you!" she said. "You're a mother!"

"Grueling work," Hawke said. "You've already met the nug—"

"She said her name was 'Mal,' actually," Fenris said. "Hawke. I am...glad to see you."

Hawke grinned at him, although there was something tight about her mouth, something dark in her eyes. "That's what her father calls her. Her real name is Malina. Malina, can you say hello to Fenris and Isabela?"

Kitten didn't look away from her mother. "No."

"That was rude, nug. What do we say about being rude?"

Kitten squinted. "Don't do it unless we're sure we can get away with it?"

Hawke squinted back. "You know," she said, "it really is remarkable we've managed to keep you alive this long." She leaned over, Kitten—Malina, that was—still firmly attached to her neck, and scooped up her staff. "I don't suppose the two of you know where a woman could get a hot bath?"

"Oho, I have just the place," said Isabela. She wrapped her arm around Hawke's shoulders, and they started off to the Hanged Man in lockstep, Fenris close at their backs. This feeling must be happiness—surely it was. Imagine, Hawke alive, Hawke with a _daughter_. Isabela was using up more than her yearly allotment of glee and astonishment.

"Which was why we were finally able to come out of hiding," Hawke concluded as they traipsed into the tavern. "I can't say that all of them have been dealt with, but we've cut off the head, so to speak. Nasty business, cutting off heads."

Isabela stepped away briefly to arrange for her quartermaster to draw Hawke a bath—she really did stink of sewage—and then returned in time to see Hawke settle into her old spot at their table in the corner. It was surreal, seeing her there, in the seat she had occupied for so many years, and for one hazy moment Isabela fancied Merrill was with her, sitting across from Anders, Varric at the head of the table to Hawke's left, Aveline at the foot with Donnic beside her. She blinked, and the vision vanished; there was only Hawke, her daughter in her lap, and Fenris.

"I came as soon as I could," Hawke said. "With something that might put a stop to this war, although it's a bit behind me, I'm afraid, should be here soon—"

"Papa?" said Kitten.

"Yes, that means Papa. We have a decree from Divine Victoria," Hawke explained, "declaring Sebastian's war unjust. Honestly, what a load of rot, I don't know what's gotten into his head—sober for too long, probably."

"You truly think that will be enough to break the siege?" said Fenris.

"Well," Hawke said cheerfully, "it's that, or we manage to convince him the only fugitives Kirkwall is harboring haven't done anything more harmful than run a nug-smuggling ring out of the Gallows. Or we could upend a chamberpot over his head, that might get the point across."

"Speaking of chamberpots and people who smell like them," Isabela said, "there's a bath waiting for you upstairs, if you'd like."

"You mean I _don't_ smell like a garden?" Hawke said.

Kitten lifted her head from Hawke's shoulder. "No," she said. "You smell like dog."

"You're half-Ferelden too, my love," Hawke said. "Right, bath it is. You'll have to walk yourself, Mother's too tired to haul around a sack of potatoes."

"'M not potatoes," Kitten said.

"No? Bricks, then."

"I'm _nugs,_ " Kitten said, which rather contradicted how Isabela had been thinking of her.

"Mm, yes," said Hawke. "That sounds right." She levered herself upright with a groan. 

"Straight up," Isabela said. "Tub waiting for you by the fire, I insist you not come back down until you no longer smell of garbage."

"It sounds like someone wants another hug," Hawke said. "Come here, Isabela, let me rub my sewage all over you."

"Oh, go away," Isabela said, laughing, and Hawke, smirking, took her daughter by the hand and went to clean herself.

"What a day," she said, when Hawke was out of earshot. "I can hardly believe it."

"I can hardly believe it myself," Fenris said. "Although I will admit to terror at the thought of Hawke reproducing."

"She's entirely too well-behaved for Hawke's daughter," Isabela agreed. "Which makes me wonder who the father is. I suppose we'll find out soon enough."

"You don't think…" Fenris trailed off.

"Anders? No, I had that thought too, but it's unlikely—she always refused to go to bed with anyone she'd known for longer than a week. I was so certain we'd lost her," Isabela said, "but I should know better by now than to bet against Hawke."

"Aveline will want to hear about this."

 _"Everyone_ will want to hear about this," Isabela countered, "but there's no harm in letting her have a bath and some sleep, particularly if we have to wait for the Divine's letter to arrive."

"Hn." Fenris drained the last of his ale. "Does she know about Varric?"

Oh, now there was news Isabela didn't want to break. "I hope so," she said. "I'm not sure I can stand to see her face when she hears—it'll be Leandra all over again." That had been a terrible year, with Hawke even more flippant than usual; she'd gone drinking every night, thrown herself into even greater danger with even greater aplomb, and crackled constantly with the uncontrolled odor of lightning. Confusingly, Varric had been the only one who had been able to draw sobriety out of her.

Maker, they had all scattered so far, and some of them had been so lost. Carver was deep in the bowels of the world, fighting darkspawn still, and Merrill was vanishing for increasingly lengthy periods of time into the wilds. Even Isabela and Fenris had only returned when they'd heard of Aveline's plight.

Isabela sighed and pressed a kiss to Fenris's cheek. "I'll send a messenger up to Hightown," she said. "See to dinner?"

"If you mean 'instruct Cook to make something edible,' I am capable," Fenris assured her. "Have someone look at your side, too."

In all the hullabaloo, she'd forgotten about her wound entirely. There was probably a malodorous tincture of elfroot around here somewhere, if only she could remember where she'd put it…

It was well after dark when Kitten came bounding down the stairs again. Hawke was behind her, battlemage's dress exchanged for clean clothes; she was wearing several layers of shirts, the outermost of which was so broad she'd had to belt it in severely with a sash, and a baggy pair of knee-breeches. Her shins and feet were bare.

Aha; she'd gone digging through Varric's drawers.

"Hawke," Isabela said, and waved her over. "Aveline should be here soon enough, she'll want all the details from you. Now, we're thinking the best thing will be to have you ride out under a white flag—"

"Why must _I_ always be the one to do all the work?" Hawke said. "'Hawke, slay this dragon for me. Hawke, find my wife. Hawke, buy me a pretty hat."

("Hawke, Hawke, Hawke," chimed Malina.)

"You will do anything for a sovereign," Isabela pointed out.

"And you are the Champion of Kirkwall," Fenris added.

"That's more of an honorary title, really." Hawke's daughter started trying to scale the chimney, and Hawke plucked her down and redirected her to the bar; it was possible Kitten hadn't been lacking in personality so much as worried about her mother. 

"You earned it killing an enormous Qunari warlord," Isabela said. "That's about as far from honorary as it gets."

"Don't remind me," Hawke said. She collapsed into the chair at the table's head, and soon enough Malina came over and managed to clamber up and over the chair's back, where she hung over her mother's shoulder; the position couldn't have been comfortable. "Even so," Hawke said. "Good to be home. Does the ale still taste like piss?"

"Yes," said Fenris.

"Excellent," Hawke said. "I'll have a pint. And some food for the nug here, too, if you don't mind." She kicked her bare feet up on the table and crossed them at the ankle, and Norah brought out her ale and a platter of roast beef and stewed vegetables that had seen better days. Hawke cut the food into small bites and then handed the fork to Malina, who went at it with aplomb.

Outside it had started to storm, but inside the fire was warm and the companionship excellent. The end of the siege was near, Hawke was alive—really, Isabela couldn't ask for more.

"So tell me what all I've missed," Hawke said. "Everyone still alive?"

 _Balls._ Fenris shot Isabela a look, which she avoided in favor of taking off her rather magnificent hat and plopping it on Kitten's head. Kitten stopped chewing and rewarded her with a look of awe. "Oh," said Isabela, "you know how it is, hard to keep track. Athenril went to meet the Maker a few years back, no surprise there, she was smuggling massive amounts of lyrium into Ostwick."

"Poor Athenril," Hawke agreed. "You know, she wasn't a bad sort, for a career criminal."

"Speak for yourself," Fenris said. 

"Fenris, please, you know I'm only ever a criminal as a hobby. Or in times of dire need. Or if the coin is excellent." Hawke reached out to tweak the brim of her daughter's hat. She was saying all the right things in all the right ways, but there was a tension still in her shoulders; perhaps that came of the whole 'being hunted' matter. Isabela would have to get the full story out of her, although maybe when there were fewer pint-sized listeners about.

She sighed. There was no getting around it; Hawke was going to have to be told. Presumably it wouldn't matter much to Kitten, who wouldn't know any of her mother's old friends from a stranger in the street. There was a ferocious crack of thunder outside, as if to punctuate the bad news Isabela was about to break.

"Hawke," she said, "there's something you should know—"

At that moment, the door to the Hanged Man swung open. Isabela was on her feet immediately, but it was Kitten who shrieked and threw herself at the figure at the door.

_"Papa!"_

Kitten's father was clearly as practiced as her mother with their daughter's quick assaults, because he caught her under the arms and hoisted her up, soaking her through with rainwater in the process. "Hey, kid," said Varric, and kicked the door shut behind him.

"You're _alive,"_ Isabela said, at the same time Fenris said, "You found Hawke?" Unfortunately, there was a steady stream of chatter pouring out of Kitten that prevented any real attempt at conversation, all of it delivered in a high-pitched voice that Isabela couldn't herself decipher, although Varric apparently had no trouble understanding. He maneuvered the oilskin satchel he wore over his head and dropped it on a table, and then, more carefully, took Bianca off one-handed and set her beside the satchel.

"Swimming, huh?" he said. "Tell you what, why don't you give me the whole story after I say hello to your mother, that all right? Rivaini, Broody, Marian." He winked at the latter. "Nice shirt."

"Shall we have a round of 'who wore it better?'" Hawke asked.

"Does nobody stay dead anymore?" Isabela asked. "Not that I'm complaining, but I'm not sure my poor heart can take much more in one day. Too much excitement is bad for the health." And if the thought of Hawke reproducing was terrifying, the thought of Hawke and Varric reproducing _together_ was worse; Kitten was a scoundrel in the making, and as a scoundrel herself, Isabela thoroughly approved.

Honestly, it wasn't even all that surprising; she'd seen how Hawke had looked at Varric back when Hawke was nothing more notorious than a saucy young refugee. Varric had been totally oblivious, of course, too caught up in watching Hawke to really see her. How did the sex work? Probably deviant but superb; Varric was good with his hands and better with his tongue, and Hawke seemed like she'd be as ridiculous in bed as she was out of it.

"Presents?" said Kitten.

"Presents!" said Hawke. "Never mind her, did you bring me anything?"

"You people," Varric said. "It isn't enough that I made it here alive and unharmed—no, now I'm apparently supposed to stop in the middle of running for my life to go shopping?" He sighed and went rooting through his duster's pockets; after a moment, he produced a packet, unwrapped it, and laid it flat on the table.

"Ooh," said Hawke. "Candy!" Kitten's mouth was already stuffed full.

Varric rolled his eyes. The big liar—he was loving this, and Isabela could tell. It rolled off him as tangibly as the rainwater he was dripping on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (If you happen to have read this story in the first twenty-four hours it was posted and notice that the name of Hawke and Varric's kid is now different...you are totally right. I hopped on Behind the Name after posting and discovered there is a feminine form of the name 'Malcolm.' It was too good to pass up.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was approximately the most laborious thing I have ever written, but since basically everything else I've done for this pairing fades to black before the fun bits, it seemed like time to post something a little more naked.

The kid was asleep long before Aveline had everything she wanted out of them; Mal had crawled into Hawke's lap, wedged her head between Hawke's side and the arm of the chair, and curled up like a mabari puppy. It wouldn't be long before she was too big to fit like that, although Varric figured they still had a while before she stopped trying to scale her parents as though they were trees.

When the rest of their little rebellion had scattered, he hauled the kid up on his shoulder and carried her upstairs. Hawke was sleepy-eyed herself, if still smirking faintly; good for her, she was glad to be home. Most telling, though, was the way her eyes hadn't left him for the length of the evening. They were so close to being in the clear, and having a scare like that at the end had rattled her.

Not that she'd ever admit it. Varric wasn't about to admit it himself, but they understood each other anyway; it was the one thing that could make a relationship between two emotionally-stunted, crazy idiots work.

Someone had shoved a cot in the back corner of his old suite by the fireplace, and since the sheets looked clean enough, he let Mal down and maneuvered her under the covers. She was completely limp in the way that only sleeping kids were. The past couple of months had been rough on her, and he knew she'd picked up on Hawke's anxiety today, even if she hadn't known what she was anxious about.

When he turned around, he found Hawke was leaning against the wall, her arms wrapped around herself as she watched him. 

"How's the bed look?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

"Better than the ground?"

"Ha. Point." His duster was downstairs, but he kicked off his boots and lined them up by the fire to finish drying. Someone in the past seven years had strung a thick curtain in front of the bedroom; he'd paid handsomely to have his rooms kept up and didn't appreciate anyone tampering with them, but on closer inspection, it did make the bedroom cozy. It also offered a measure of privacy from any listening little pitchers, which was a welcome novelty. 

There was something surreal about seeing Hawke in his suite—she'd been here hundreds of times in the old days, sure, but he'd never had the pleasure of seeing her wearing one of his shirts back then. He sort of wished she wasn't wearing anything under it; although the sash she'd purloined for a belt showed off her trim waist, the view with bare cleavage would have been… _inspiring_.

Shit, he was glad she was alive.

He held the curtain back for her and then let it fall shut behind them. "Lights on or off?"

"Oh, definitely off," Hawke said, and then she did something that made her fingers sparkle; one of the sconces went out, even though she was standing a good three feet from it. Varric sat down on the bed before she could put the other one out, thinking that he wasn't in the mood to bang his shins on every piece of furniture in the room.

Hawke extinguished the other light and then slid in beside him. "It took you long enough to get here," she said. "I was starting to think you'd gotten lost on on the way."

"Shh," Varric said. "You can't make fun of me, I'm too happy right now."

"Kirkwall?"

_"Mattress,"_ said Varric.

The mattress in question dipped as Hawke shifted beside him; he was wondering what had taken her so long to make her way over. "I'm never taking you into the wilderness again," she said. "Entirely too much effort. "

"Good," Varric said. "The wilderness can go screw itself. Who wants to live somewhere where you have to kill your own food and sleep on the ground? Not to mention our kid should grow up somewhere civilized."

Hawke, who was in the process of wrapping herself around him like a many-limbed snake, grinned against his neck. "Tell me," she said in his ear, "is the thought that she might have as provincial a childhood as her mother that terrible?"

"Yes," Varric said.

"Oh, well, if you don't like me, I supposed I can go—"

He wrapped an arm around her waist to pin her down. She responded by biting him on the chin. 

"Cut that out," Varric whispered. "The kid's in the next room—"

"I can be quiet," Hawke whispered back hopefully.

He snorted. "No, you can't."

"I can _probably_ be quiet," Hawke tried.

"Uh-huh."

"I'll try to be quiet?" Hawke offered, even though they both knew that was a weak promise at best. Not that Varric was complaining; he appreciated that she melted like gold in a forge the minute he laid hands on her, and _he_ wasn't exactly a paragon of self-control, either.

If he was being honest, though, the main reason he refused her was simply to see what she'd pull next. "No can do," he said, and folded one of his arms behind his head.

Hawke went quiet and still, and then she rolled away from him. The mattress moved as she did whatever it was she was doing; after a couple of seconds, something soft hit the ground. She shifted again, reaching for one of his hands, and the next thing Varric knew, she'd curled his fingers around the neckline of her—his—the shirt she wore.

"What—" he whispered, and then he registered the texture of what he was touching; the collar was familiar with its thick stitching, but where it ended, where he should have felt the fabric of her undershirts, he touched only skin.

Varric cleared his throat. "Hawke, are you wearing anything under that?"

She leaned a little closer, and his hand slid down to cover her breast. "Under what?" she said into his ear.

"...You'll be quiet?"

"You have my complete permission to stifle me in whatever way you feel is necessary," Hawke whispered; she wasn't halfway through the word 'necessary' before his hands were on her waist. They had the same idea, which was an often frequent and always terrifying occurrence, and he steadied her as she swung her knee up and straddled him.

The problem was that this left both the covers and Varric's smallclothes between the relevant parts. Hawke reached back, grabbed a handful of blanket, and started yanking, which resulted in a degree of squirming that was about as helpful to the current situation as a bar of soap in a mudslide.

"Hold still—ow!"

"What?" said Hawke.

"That was my face," Varric said.

"Well, your face was in the way of my elbow," said Hawke, practical as ever. There was some further squirming between the time Varric stopped massaging his nose and the time he finally got a hand under his wife's ass and managed to pin her in place long enough to maneuver the blankets out from under her. Once he'd removed the first barrier, Hawke proved much more efficient at the task of transferring Varric's smallclothes from his hips to the floor.

When she settled back into place atop him, she was closer to his chest than his groin, and the head of his cock just—barely—brushed her ass. Varric could compose poetry, he could compose _epics_ to how much he savored the anticipation of Hawke sliding back the pertinent couple of inches.

"Hawke..."

"I thought we weren't supposed to be talking?" she whispered back. Her body was curled over him. "In fact I distinctly remember you saying—"

"Fine. No talking."

"Right," said Hawke, her breath humid against his face.

Varric slid his hand from its resting place on her neck over the curve of her spine and further still; he worked a couple of fingers between his stomach and her body until he reached the sticky mess of her cunt.

"Looking for something?" 

"Kind of wet down there," Varric said.

Hawke bumped her forehead against his. "Pure coincidence," she said, although her breath hitched when he slid the tip of his finger into her. 

"Coincidence, huh."

"Could be due to...ah...any number of things," said Hawke.

"Here I thought we weren't supposed to be talking."

"Fuck," Hawke said feelingly, and Varric laughed. He bit back the sound before it grew loud enough to wake the kid, but Hawke recognized his shaking for what it was and dug her knee into his armpit; Varric had to smother his face against her skin to keep himself quiet.

Throughout it all, she didn't move. He was reluctant to call it 'clinging'—much as she clamored for attention, Marian herself was about as needy as a rock—but her fingers were a little too firm in his hair, her legs a little too tight around his torso. Instead of jabbing him in the ribs to see if she could make him squeal, she set her cheek against his and pushed herself down so his cock was trapped between his belly and her cunt.

"Kind of hard down here," said Hawke. "I'd ask you about it, but silence is the order of the evening."

"Hard? Ha. Probably a coincidence."

"You know, I have noticed a lot of coincidences lately. How odd." Her mouth was already tucked beside his ear, and she used the placement to take his earlobe between her teeth and give it a gentle tug. Varric retaliated by laving a row of open-mouthed kisses from the top of her shoulder up the soft skin of her neck; Hawke's answering grunt stuttered straight into a high moan that broke only at the sound of raised voices from outside the room.

They froze.

The voices rose again and then died, and Varric, realizing the noise was only a couple of Isabela's men heading out for a late watch, relaxed; but Hawke shuddered hard against him. She was wound tight, and the energy of it buzzed beneath her skin and raised every hair on the back of Varric's neck.

She was like that sometimes—too much spirit stuffed inside one body, was how he'd always thought of it. Once upon a time, before a creepy sorcerer had decided his whole family was prime fodder for demonic experimentation, Varric's response would have been to spread Hawke out across his bed and apply his mouth to her cunt until she was sobbing and limp. Shit, now those had been the days; there was nothing like the thrill of reducing the most powerful woman he'd ever met to complaining about how she couldn't walk because her parts were all tingly.

Of course, then had come a child, the creepy sorcerer, and several years of life as fugitives, none of which were conducive to spending the entire day inventing new ways to screw each other. Not that he'd trade Mal for anything, even if her existence meant a lifetime on the run; all that peril was bad for the digestive system, but it had taught him to treasure even the moments stolen between the rest of their lives.

Hawke, meanwhile, had tipped her hips forward, the better to rub her clit against his cock. She was, in intimacy as in all things, a woman who realized every advantage.

At this point, they often paused to reflect before the festivities built to a conclusive peak. "Have I ever told you that you dwarf the competition?" was an old favorite of Hawke's as she squirmed past the thick head of his dick, but more frequently they managed nothing more than an exchange of "Fuck, that feels good" and "No need to tell _me."_ Sometimes Varric liked to explicitly refer to Hawke's pussy, just to see if he could trigger a tirade on his word choices; the sensation of her cunt clenching around him as she made her argument was damn near perfect.

Here, though, in the blackness, he found the only thing he could think about was seeing her. Hawke's mouth was wine-dark, a coloration that extended to her nipples, and he knew that if he asked her to light the candles and spread her thighs, he'd find the same deep flush between her legs. The contrast between that, her fair skin, and his own ruddier complexion was riveting.

He wanted to see her. He wanted to see her a _lot_. Maybe it was the memory of watching her walk south out of the Vimmarks, their daughter clutching her hand, while he went west to shake off their pursuers, maybe it was the latent fear he'd never see her again—maybe it was something older still, the picture of her face as she sailed away from Kirkwall and left him behind all those years ago. Who know?

"Hey," he whispered. "Marian."

"Mmf," said Hawke. "What happened to that rule, the one about no talking—"

Varric reached out until he found her face, dragged her down, and kissed her. He wanted to see her, but shit, this was just as good; her mouth was wine-dark, but it tasted far less poetic. Sweat and ale, salt from dinner, mint from the tonic she'd downed before bed, sweat and ale and smoke and _him_.

Her breath hitched as he pushed into her, but he swallowed the sound and kept kissing her and kept pushing and kept wanting. Hawke's cunt was so slick that the only barrier to seating himself fully was his own girth; he kept it slow and steady until Hawke planted her palms on his chest and _shoved_.

"Fuck," he heard her breathe. "Maker, I missed this."

"Nnng," Varric contributed.

"You're—ah! You're still taking the...the thing."

"The thing?"

"The potion. The baby potion. Shit. Thingy."

Oh. _Oh._ Birthbane, she meant birthbane.

"Yeah, you?"

Hawke grunted as he rocked up into her. "Yes and yes, please feel free to continue to the—what am I—ohhhh _right there."_ She squirmed against him and then grunted again, this time more loudly, and Varric possessed just enough sense to remember that they were supposed to be quiet.

"Shhh," he said, and then he tweaked her nipple through her shirt.

"Not helping—"

Varric kissed her.

"Oh, you are a bastard," she whispered into his mouth; he flattered himself into thinking her tone was entirely fond, and then, without breaking the kiss, she began to drive herself even harder against him. Hawke, like the most dangerous kind of crossbow, had a hair-trigger. She went off easily and often. Varric's job was simply to aim and provide a little pressure.

Accordingly, he shoved a hand between their bodies to give her something to rub against; it was a tight fit, and as soon as he touched the swollen nub of her clit, she gave out a shout. Shit.

At that point, he didn't recall why being quiet was important, but in one coordinated effort, he rolled them up and over, braced a forearm on the bed, and clamped his hand over her mouth. Just in time, too; the whole thing sent him jolting even deeper into Marian, and she quivered and spasmed against him as she climaxed. Varric could only keep his head down and hold on, which was more or less his standard practice when it came to Hawke.

After a minute or two, one of her hands came up to cover his, and he let her peel his fingers away from her mouth. "Good?" he asked.

"Mmm, splendid," said Hawke. He felt her stretch beneath him, and then she hiked her legs up and clamped her knees against his sides. Varric accepted the invitation with gusto.

"Do you know what I thought, the first time I saw you?" Hawke said, and punctuated her question by curling her fingers in his chest hair and giving it a tug. He huffed as he rocked into her. "It certainly wasn't, 'Oh, there's the dwarf who's going to put me flat on my back someday,' granted—actually, I was probably wondering if you were going to give me my coinpurse back. Do you know what I'd done to earn that money?"

Hawke broke off to guide his head down so she could tuck her mouth beside his ear; the position put Varric's face against her shoulder, and he breathed in the smell of her. "I won't go into details," Hawke whispered, "but it involved a rat, a flute, and a couple of balls. Don't get excited, now—the rat sat on my head while I juggled and danced a merry jig." 

Varric snorted; he was close now, and his dick felt like it was about to dance a merry jig itself as long as she kept talking. He wasn't sure how she knew that she needed the reassurance of her voice; it was possible, though, that she realized he'd been just as rattled as she was by their narrow escape, that they shared the impossibly pure relief of being home.

"Which reminds me," Hawke said, "there's something I wanted to tell you." She shifted below him and then said, her voice fierce, _"Don't you dare leave me again."_

To put it in literary terms, Varric saw his maker. To put it in practical terms, he popped like a cork. There was grunting; there was Hawke; there was the exquisite sensation of pouring himself into her. 

When the light show finally dimmed, he was left without any will to move, and he told Hawke as much.

"Personally, I'm in favor of it," she said. "No moving ever again."

"I'd be willing to make an exception for a repeat performance," he said, and rolled them onto their sides. It'd be a damn shame if he smothered Hawke to death after all the time he'd invested in her, after all. Their heads were at the foot of the bed, but Varric couldn't bring himself to care.

"Unfortunately—"

"Don't say it."

Hawke ran her hand through his hair. _"One_ of us has to say it."

Varric sighed. "Fine. We should probably put pants on in case the kid blah blah blah. Sound about right?"

"Well, don't make it sound as though I'm entirely pro-clothing," said Hawke. "I prefer to think motherhood hasn't changed me _that_ much."

"Only in good ways," he assured her. "Only in the best ways, Hawke."

"Flatterer," she said. There was a pop, and then a tiny ball of flame flared to life atop one of her fingers. Her hair was tousled and her pupils were enormous, but there was a lazy, satisfied grin pulling at her mouth, and the tension he'd seen in her earlier had vanished.

"I find the trousers, you check on our daughter, and we rendezvous back here," he proposed. "What do you say?"

"Deal," said Hawke, and she kissed him to seal it.


End file.
